*Sighs.*

I don’t even know.

It spies on your sexy times.

See how loud it really gets!

Spreadsheets does not record or playback your session. That would be creepy.

YA THINK?!

So, it measures how long and how loud.

And how many thrusts.

How did this thing make it over the adult content hurdle in the Apple Store?

How do you Spreadsheets?

Find out just how long you really last.

Keep a record of your average, peak, and aggregate performance. Let the facts speak for themselves

But…

Why?

What would these “facts” even really say?

That you have a statistics fetish?

That you aren’t comfortable performing tasks that aren’t part of a metrics portfolio?

I can’t…

*Sighs.*

Only the people you share it with. Share it with your doctor if you’re trying to get pregnant. Share it with your nutritionist since you’re burning calories. Share it with your friends and let the facts speak for themselves.

OH MY GOD.

PLEASE DON’T TELL ME ABOUT YOUR THRUST COUNT, PEOPLE.

All those workouts you’ve recorded on Facebook? I blocked them. I promise.

I am really not even sure that loud, long and thrusty is any guarantee for success.

Have sex, save the world.

Meet Fuck for Forest:

Berlin’s Fuck For Forest is one of the world’s most bizarre charities. Based on the idea that sex can save the world, the NGO raises money for their environmental cause by selling home-made erotic films on the internet.

So, basically, they make hippie porn, sell it online, then donate the proceeds to environmental groups.

They also do live sex acts.

The group gained notoriety when two of its members had sexual intercourse on stage during a 2004 Quart Festival concert featuring Norwegian singerKristopher Schau and his band The Cumshots, after delivering a brief talk on the impact humans have on forests. The group then faced legal action as a result (including a fine imposed on the group after its male member dropped his pants in a Kristiansand, Norway, courtroom), and consequently moved its headquarters to Berlin, Germany.

But, moving to Berlin didn’t solve all their problems:

The Norwegian chapter of the Rainforest Foundation Fund as well as the WWF both in the Netherlands and in Norway have refused to accept donations from FFF. As a result, Fuck for Forest is working on a project to work directly with indigenous communities in Costa Rica and the Brazilian Amazon rainforest.

The leader of the organization vaguely resembles Russell Brand if you ran him through a Portlandia sketch. (That may be redundant, now that I think about it.)

Michał Marczak has made a documentary about the group.  It was released on Earth Day:

The list of screenings can be found here.

(H/t: Sannion.)

I hear that there are people that have very satisfying somnambular (there’s your word of the day) episodes.

I usually have sex dreams that start out hot and end up weird.

Celebrity dreams are about a million times worse.

1.) George Clooney

I was 18 or so, and we’d seen Out of Sight that afternoon. There’s a scene in the movie where Jennifer Lopez and Clooney are trapped in a trunk together. I can tell you that being trapped in a trunk with imaginary Dream Clooney is a lot of fun. What is less fun is that, at some point, my brain decided that we really, really needed to use the spare tire, with the tire iron that was poking me in the back. Eventually, instead of sexing George Clooney, I ended up in some sort of auto repair place haggling over tires. Dream fail.

2.) Britney Spears

I was totally confused by this one. Britney Spears is not my type. She’s really not. I did her in my sleep anyway. Dream Britney was awesome. Dream Britney had the most perfect breasts that anyone has ever touched in a dream in the history of dream boobs. We totally went clubbing in this dream, and we did what club kids do. Unfortunately, she had braces. This was, like, 2001. She was 18; the braces made sense. Kind of. I don’t know. Jung will have to decipher it. And, in this dream, I had clit piercings. You can see where this is going, right? Instead of nocturnally getting off, I had a dream about having Britney Spears’ braces trapped in my delicate bits. Fuck you, MTV.

3.) John Paul Tremblay

This is where the real deterioration begins. I was 26, I guess? John Paul Tremblay played Julian on Trailer Park Boys. Really, I have no excuse. I guess he was kind of attractive. He’s currently balding, and Canadian, and totally creepy looking. But I would watch these endless marathons of the show, and eventually, there I was. The setting was a trailer. Of course. But, it was the never ending trailer. There are people that make a doublewide out of two singlewides. Or, a quadruple wide. Whatever. In this dream, it was endless attached trailers. It was the Winchester Mystery Trailer. And, Julian and I had to pay rent. We kept wandering through trailer after trailer, looking for someone to pay, but could never find the office. Eventually, we got bored and just had hot, trailer park sex instead.

At least it wasn’t the guy that played Bubbles.

Bubbles.

4.) Steve-O.

Yes. Really. You wanna wake up seriously disgusted with yourself? Accidentally have a sex dream about the guy that’s almost too fucked up for Jackass. Someone that has flown through the air in an unsecured portapotty. It’s about at that point that you start to long for the days that you had Britney Spear’s imaginary braces endangering your subconscious netherpeircings. You wake up. You take a shower, and you just can’t get really clean.

5.) Charlie Day

Y’all.  I just don’t know. There’s something wrong with me.

It’s not always sunny. It’s just not.

Ne reste pas ainsi décalotté cher Baron

 Little is known about the life of Martin van Maële. He worked at Brussels as well as Paris, and his best known work – consisting among other things of an illustrated edition of Paul Verlaine’s poems – was published in small, secretive editions by publisher Charles Carrington.

Slaying the Mighty Peen: à L. Cranach

 Van Maële’s career is said to have really began with his illustrations for H. G. Wells in Les Premiers Hommes dans la Lune (or The First Men in the Moon), published by Felix Juven in 1901.

à Boileau Despreaux

These are all from La Grande Danse macabre des vifs (1905.)

I don't even know.

You can find the rest of them here.

It’s not about titillation. It’s the gawking urge. It’s what kept freakshows alive. Or, reality TV.

Most weird porn is just weird for the sake of being weird. Shots set up like it’s Bergman!  Decorative lizards! Singing about magical tacos! Why is grandpa in the back of the room? What the hell is going on here?

Those are awesome.

And some of it is specialty material for the fetish market.

There is something terrifically honest about genuine fetish porn.

There’s a lot of fake fetish material out there. It’s not actually fetishistic. It’s porn with BDSM dressing. Hot chicks in chains. Dominatrixes in goofy costumes, where, in the end, the man reasserts his penis. ”Fetish” as a sex industry marketing term.

No. I am talking about the stuff that’s not actually sexy, unless you’re part of the club. It starts somewhere in the latex encasing/pet play/adult baby zone, fully includes the feet and nylon people, pure spankos, pure bondage enthusiasts, the furries and woolies, the baked goods/mud/washing machine sitters, and ends up out there in a spot where it’s possible you’re not even clued into the fact that you’re watching fap video at all.

Like balloon poppers:

Or, shoulder riders:

Or, pedal pushers:

That is an actual fetish.

If you’ve got an actual weird, out-there sort of fetish?

You’re uniquely isolated.

You’re riding the internet version of asking for the magazines wrapped up in brown paper. You’re stuck with a limited pool of people on the inside, and there’s just not an enormous amount of room for being shallow about physical appearances.

There is no pick-up line for being into genuinely weird sexual activities. You are automatically without game.

At best, you’ve got, “This is my weird thing. Please don’t leave.”

This is, of course, in comparison to people that enjoy “fetish” like it’s it’s a customization option on an electronic gadget–they want the black one that plays industrial ringtones. BDSM lifestylers. People with scene names. Conspicuous collars and goofy sets of rules and “earning your leathers” and Gor. Talks about “true” this and that.  Bragging about your credentials. “Munches.”  The whole hideously generic social “scene,” complete with predictably stylized attempts at seduction. That’s not really about “fetish.” It’s a flavor. It’s about game. Which is why it’s so rife with men that send the “get on your knees, bitch” email out en masse. And 18 year old boys that insist they’re “dominant” because they like the idea of getting blow jobs on demand.

It’s “fetish” the way that Suicide Girls is “alternative.”

So, you know, I run across these people that have these really weird, out there sorts of fetishes, and yes, sometimes I flinch. And, sometimes I cock my head to one side and just marvel at the oddity. And, sometimes I just don’t get it at all.

But, you know, even if I am flinching or gawking or totally confused, I have to salute the commitment. I can respect someone owning their sexuality. It’s brave. Even if I don’t get it.